


Words Beginning With "In"

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brothers, Gen, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-08 07:15:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1129845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This one's based on the presupposition of Mycroft suffering an Exile paralleling Sherlock's, and having to return home again a few years later. Just fun playing with what one could do with a Mycroft who has to come home. (smile) Gentle, unrealized Mystrade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Words Beginning With "In"

There were people, Sherlock knew, who would have said spying on Greg Lestrade and his incoming contact was inappropriate. They’d have said it was invasive, intrusive, inconsiderate, insensitive, and any number of other bad words starting with “in.” They’d no doubt indicate he deserved internment or incarceration. Sherlock was indifferent to their opinions, to use another one. He was incurably inquisitive, and infernally and intrinsically inclined to investigate.

To paraphrase, Sherlock was a snoop, and he was going to spy on Greg and…the incoming…whether it was appropriate or not. He had a hypothesis, and he needed more data. He doubted this rendezvous would resolve the issue, but depending on certain outcomes it could lead Sherlock to favor or disfavor the underlying conjecture.

It had taken some work to weasel out the time and place of the contact. He’d had to hack MI6 files (No problemo!), gain temporary access to Not-Anthea’s laptop during her off-duty hours (Easy-peasy!), access Greg’s phone texts (Oh, come now, not even worth mention!). There was the rather more challenging matter of trying to confirm a flight-time through Heathrow, but he’d perservered, and even succeeded in confirming the incoming party was listed as one “Altamont Sigurson,” arriving from Langley, Virginia, coming in with a dual-citizenship visa. Even then he’d felt a trace of uncertainty as he loitered in the shadows of the car park.

There were times, he thought, that dark hair and a dark coat were exceptionally convenient. Only his face stood out, and he’d thought ahead, bringing a simple, dark gauze scarf in a dull dappled pattern to toss over his face: so thin it blanked out nearly nothing. He’d found an angle of the building so perfectly placed to break up the image of the human form, and with such a well-lit view of the rendezvous point, that he’d almost chosen to do without the veil. Then he’d reconsidered. Best take no chances.

He waited.

Lestrade arrived, his beat-up clunker rolling into a spot up the ramp from the rendezvous point. Lestrade eased himself out and ambled heavily to the lit area, fumbling for a cigarette, reminding Sherlock of their own reunion over two years previously. Sherlock longed for a cigarette, too. It was near torture to watch Lestrade suck in the smoke, close his eyes, let the smoke back out in a formless cloud. The older man breathed a sigh of—perhaps not contentment, but of satisfaction. Sherlock remembered that feeling. No matter how tired you were, you felt just that bit better when you took the first drag. It was like the first deep sip of hot tea, or your first spoonful of hot and sour soup when you felt so bad all you wanted to do was die quietly. So good…

Lestrade was aging, Sherlock thought, sadly. Aging well—he was a handsome man. But the years showed, now, where for decades he’d seemed to just shrug them off. Middle-age hadn’t just come to him, in the words Mycroft had used two years before—it was beginning to pass Lestrade by. The older man hunched into his coat, shoved one hand deep in his pocket, leaving only the other out to manage the fag. He looked calmly around the car park, aware but at ease, even though he believed himself to be alone and waiting to meet a dangerous contact. Lestrade had long since grown good at being alone.

Sherlock shivered, then, aware for the first time that he actually cared how this observation proceeded. He cared whether his hypothesis was correct, or not. A moment’s reflection told him he’d been an idiot to think he didn’t. He was Sherlock Holmes, after all. He didn’t waste time on meaningless hypotheses, only on those that mattered.

It was close to half an hour before Sherlock spotted the motion in shadow coming near from the depths of the cavernous building. He tensed, seeing that sleek, silent approach. The contact had apparently arrived even earlier than Sherlock and hidden in the levels below—or, more likely, he knew an alternate route in. In any case he paused a moment, watching Lestrade from shadow.

The contact wasn’t much to see—a silhouette in dark wool. Crisp lines, pale blur of face half-hidden in the shadow of a Homburg hat. A long, lean figure in a classic wool coat, leaning easily on an umbrella.

Sherlock sighed and invoked another “in” word— _insufferable_. Would Mycroft never cease with his ridiculous posturing? Two years exile, as long an absence as Sherlock’s own, and in the wilds of America no less, and here he was, prim and proper and luxuriating in that mile-long profile and the necessary visual accoutrements of an English Gentleman. Brother-dear was such a theatrical sort.

Sherlock risked a small grin and silently conceded to his inner John and Mary Watson that he was, indeed, worse. He could hear their respective harrumph and giggle as they approved his honesty.

He remembered when he’d been the one hiding in the shadows, looking at Lestrade waiting for him. He remembered wondering what Lestrade’s reaction would be. The man hadn’t known who he was there to meet. Sherlock doubted he knew this time, either. He arrived when called, as was his duty. He waited, patiently, as was his discipline. He’d greet Mycroft fondly, as was his nature.

He watched as Mycroft raised his free hand to touch his hat, his scarf, trace the line of his lapels, ensuring he was all neat and tidy as he’d prefer to be. He saw his brother straighten, take a breath, raise his chin.

“Lestrade—my brother hasn’t got you back on patches, yet?”

Lestrade’s face rose, and lit—as it had lit years before for Sherlock. Maybe more…Sherlock couldn’t quite decide. “Mycroft! What is it with Holmeses? You can’t send word you’re coming back into town?” He grinned, the old, lovely grin that never changed, radiant. He waited as Mycroft approached—then, as Sherlock had thought likely, as he’d hypothesized would happen, he rumbled softly, and threw himself at the other man, pulling him close and rocking him in contentment. “You stupid tosser. Are you home for good, then?”

Sherlock watched, eyes riveted, sucking down every detail. He’d placed himself well, and thank God, Lestrade had turned them both just the right amount. He could see Mycroft’s face.

It froze, first. No surprise, though if that was all that happened it wouldn’t tell Sherlock much…just that Mycroft was as disciplined as an ascetic saint. But then…

Ah, then! Hypothesis proven…far more so than he’d thought.

Mycroft’s eyes closed. His features threatened to crumple, lips tightening, brows pulling down. He lay his face for one brief moment on Lestrade’s shoulder, returning the embrace tightly. “Home for keep? I…hope so,” he murmured, before pulling gently away, as was inevitable.

Of course. He was Mycroft.

Sherlock’s brother tidied himself again, and set his umbrella neatly in the crook of his elbow. Only then did he look into Lestrade’s face, with a twinkling smile. “Ready to take up the work again, DI Lestrade?”

“DCI Lestrade, I’ll have you know. And…always, you stupid berk. Missed you.” Lestrade gave him a gentle buffet on the shoulder, then risked just gripping Mycroft high, near the neck, shaking him softly. “Your brother’s a pip…but I missed Your High and Mightiness, if you must know.”

Mycroft gave a crooked grin. “I am honored. Consider the…sentiment…returned. DCI? My-my. I am impressed.”

“No, you’re not. You’ve got ten insulting things to say about whatever superior saw fit to promote me. But I thank you for keeping it in for now. Makes for a happier reunion. What next, eh? Work for me?”

“Oodles,” Mycroft crooned, grinning. He held out his hand, holding a thumb drive. “Review it, and get back to me?”

“Will do.” Lestrade lingered, smiling at Mycroft, then, to Sherlock’s amusement, he risked another quick, gently-rough hug. “Wanker. Welcome back.”

Mycroft, his face rising above Lestrade’s shoulder, smiled a tight smile that was half-pain, like a man sucking a lemon drop and feeling the ache in the joint of his jaw where the glands contracted. “It’s good to be back,” he murmured.

He stayed, still and quiet, as Lestrade waved, ambled back to his car, and gave one last wave again before climbing in and driving away. He watched the entire time, missing no move, never looking away until the glow of the car tail-lights was gone.

Then, of course, he said, sharply, “You’ve no better manners than you did when you were ten, Sherlock. Still spying on me?”

Sherlock snorted, and stepped out from cover. “You never could keep a secret, Mycroft. I don’t know why you bother trying. You might have told me you’d been called back.”

“Where’s the fun in that? The veil's ridiculous, by the way,” Mycroft groused. “And it's much more entertaining to leave myself a bit of latitude to settle in first. Not that it’s done me any good.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Sherlock said, softly, pulling the guaze away and shoving it into his pocket. “It’s let you meet Lestrade with at least the illusion of privacy.”

“A drop, no more,” Mycroft said. “Standard procedure.”

“Of course,” Sherlock said, voice satin and smooth. “Because you haven’t missed him at all.”

And, saying that, he turned and walked away, content that he’d tested the hypothesis and had it proven—and thinking all sorts of thoughts about Mycroft that began with “in.”

Introverted

Inhibited.

Insecure.

And, last of all, and to Sherlock’s surprise most charmingly…

Infatuated.

 


End file.
